


To Be A Nord

by thelightofmorning



Series: Blood of the Aurelii [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Multi, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Slavery, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23537674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: After escaping the Legion draft in Bruma, Korli crossed the Jeralls and made her way to Jorrvaskr. Taken on as Eorlund's apprentice, she strives to learn what it is to be a Nord. But being a Nord means more than strength and steel... and the Companions are drifting away from the path of honour. It may very well fall to the abandoned war orphan to return them to that path...
Relationships: Aela the Huntress/Farkas, TBD - Relationship
Series: Blood of the Aurelii [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695604
Comments: 49
Kudos: 48





	1. Prologue: Welcome to Jorrvaskr

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, rape/non-con, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death. Another AU where Aina and Korli have merged.

Jorrvaskr, the hall of heroes that blazed with golden glory through the mythic history of Skyrim. An overturned longship turned into a meadhall, it was hung with the faded banners and shields of legends past, set below an outcrop with a glowering hawk carved over it. If the Nord spirit was made manifest, it was probably here among the Companions, heirs to Ysgramor and his Five Hundred. Maybe there would be a little to spare for Korli to kindle her own honour-blaze with. She _was_ a Nord, even if her mother had wished otherwise.

A one-eyed warrior with silver-shot grey hair opened the double doors after her timid knock. “We don’t give out charity,” he said brusquely, but not unkindly. “The Temple of Kynareth’s the steepled building across the square, just past the Gildergreen.”

“I want to join the Companions!” Korli answered, her voice shriller than she liked.

“Girl, you need about four years and twice the muscle to even consider it,” the warrior said with a sigh. “We don’t take anyone under the age of sixteen, unless you’re born to it, and even then you wouldn’t join our ranks until about eighteen.”

“I’m eighteen,” Korli insisted. “My father was a Redguard and they don’t feed you much in the Imperial Workhouse.”

His eyebrow rose above his milk-white ruined eye. “Eighteen?” he asked sceptically.

“Eighteen,” Korli repeated. She could imagine what he saw: a scrawny, undersized adolescent dressed in a ragged tunic, skirt and sandals that had seen far better days. Sleeping under bushes and eating what she could scavenge after she’d fled the Legion draft in Bruma hadn’t done her one set of clothing good, though she’d taken the time to bathe in the river outside Whiterun this morning and comb out her hair. “My mother was a Kreathling woman, my father a Redguard, and I grew up in the Bruma Workhouse after I was abandoned in the Great War.”

His other eyebrow rose. “You were abandoned?”

“My father stayed in Hammerfell after the war and my mother went north to the Old Holds because she probably believed I was dead.” Korli tugged down her tunic to hide the tremble in her hands. “I’m a Nord. I want to learn what that means and they say that Jorrvaskr is the heart of Skyrim’s honour.”

“Let her in,” called a man’s rough tenor. “All are welcome at Jorrvaskr, Skjor.”

“Very well, Kodlak,” Skjor said with a sigh, stepping aside. “I suppose we can spare some meat for her. Gods know she barely has any on her bones.”

On the inside, Jorrvaskr was hung with more banners and shields, with a few exotic weapons hanging from the walls. The tables were arranged around a great firepit, where a sinewy grey-haired woman was cutting meat from a haunch of venison as a whip-lean Dunmer with red hair poured golden mead into battered flagons. Most of the Companions wore the same wolf-emblazoned, black-enamelled plate as Skjor – except for a lithe redhead who wore ancient-looking green leather and dulled steel armour that left her limbs bare. All of them deferred to a white-haired but still hale warrior seated at the head of the table, his eyes piercing even in the uncertain light of the firepit. Korli didn’t need to know the stories to realise this man was the Harbinger.

“A stranger comes to our hall,” noted the Harbinger, who was obviously the Kodlak Skjor had obeyed. “Take a seat and share meat and mead with us, lass. Our doors are open to the unexpected guest at dinner time.”

Skjor guided her to a seat next to a big dark-haired young man with kind grey eyes and she took it, feeling the gazes of the Companions on her. There were two brothers who looked alike but for thickness of frame and an entire host of warriors with prematurely grey hair and similar features, though only one of them wore the wolf plate. The redhead, the Dunmer, Skjor, the older woman (who looked rather like the grey-maned lot) and Kodlak made up the rest of the board.

“I am Kodlak, Harbinger of the Companions,” Kodlak continued gently. “Skjor, Aela the Huntress and Vignar Grey-Mane are of the Circle, the warriors who advise me and lead the junior Companions by example. Eorlund Grey-Mane is our wonder-smith, master of the Skyforge. Farkas and Vilkas are junior Companions. Avulstein Grey-Mane and Athis Sadri are whelps. Tilma Grey-Mane is Mistress of Jorrvaskr. Thorald Grey-Mane’s a little young to be joining the Companions, but his clan may feast at our table any time.”

“I’m Korli,” she answered, nodding respectfully. “From County Bruma.”

“Eighteen, an orphan from the Workhouse and of Bruma,” Vignar Grey-Mane rumbled. “You ran away from the draft, didn’t you?”

“I’m not a coward!” Korli retorted, her voice shriller than she liked. “They were going to send me to the Anvil Third as a grunt. If you know anything about the Legions, you know that’s sword-fodder. I don’t want to be some name on a bored clerk’s list under ‘acceptable casualties’. If I’m going to die, I want it to mean something, dammit!”

“Spoken as a true Nord – and Nord she is, Kodlak. She’s got the Kreathling look to her, even if she’s scrawny as a poor man’s goat,” Vignar told the Harbinger. “I’m not minded to see those damned Cyrods get another Nord killed.”

“Yes, you’ve been expressing your opinion on the Empire for the past ten years,” Vilkas, the leaner version of the man sitting next to Korli, drawled sardonically. “I’m surprised you haven’t gone to Windhelm to join Ulfric and his damned Stormcloaks.”

“The Companions and my family need me more than Ulfric and Sigdrifa,” Vignar answered calmly. “Just because you haven’t found that which you believe in, Vilkas, doesn’t mean you should mock a man for his belief in the gods.”

_Sigdrifa? Oh, of course, she’d be at the heart of an anti-Empire rebellion._ With years of harsh experience, Korli managed to keep her expression neutral. “I know I’m undersized. But I can endure more than you think and carry more than it looks like I can.”

Eorlund, a shaggy bear of a Nord with long silver-grey hair and the burned hands of a blacksmith, reached forth to have his mug refilled by Athis. “You’re familiar with magic.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“I know some magic,” Korli said defensively. “I learned… before. It comes in handy sometimes.”

“We don’t use magic around here,” Vilkas growled.

“ _You_ don’t, because you don’t have the mother-wit to figure out the Fire-Galdr,” Eorlund rumbled in response. “Your brother’s the talent to forge, but he can’t work the Skyforge. Avulstein’s capable enough at the smithy and with the basic galdr, but wonder-smithing’s beyond his understanding. Thorald can’t even do that. None of the other Companions are interested and care only for the fruit of the Skyforge.”

“You want to take Korli as an apprentice?” Kodlak asked, eyebrows raising.

“Her magicka’s developed enough I can sense it from here. Whatever training she had, it’s more than the cantrips and galdr most learn.” Eorlund drank half a cup of mead thirstily. “You’re not the only one who has prescience. Let the lass divide her time between me and the battle-circle. She’s got the will. Let’s see what we can do with her.”

Korli blinked. She knew ‘galdr’ was the Nord name for magic. You needed magic to work the legendary forge that produced the Companions’ signature silver-blue steel?

“Well, lass?” Kodlak asked, turning his rain-grey gaze to her. “It’s not as glorious as being of the Circle but… if I can be frank, you require a lot of training and conditioning either way so you’d be a whelp for longer than a few moons. Bed and board are included. It’s better than hiding from the Legion conscription officer, I wager.”

Korli drew her chin up. “I came here to learn what being a Nord means. Working steel, wielding weapons – does it really matter what I’m doing so long as I’m at Jorrvaskr?”

“Finally, someone else can serve the mead,” Athis muttered.

“No, it doesn’t,” Kodlak said slowly. “Welcome to Jorrvaskr.”


	2. Twice the Nord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for misogyny, violence and fantastic racism. I just folded Tilma into the Grey-Mane clan as they seem to fulfil most of the civilian support roles for the Companions. This is 4E185, ten years after the Great War; Korli’s eighteen, Avulstein’s twenty, Thorald’s ten, Olfina’s nine, Bjarni’s eight and Egil’s seven.

“Eorlund Grey-Mane, if you think you’re just going to put that girl to work at the forge without a few days of proper feeding, I will serve you tripe for the next week!” Fralia snapped as Eorlund crooked a finger at his new apprentice. Vignar, remembering just what the Companions considered a proper breakfast (mead and meat, just like most of their other meals), collected young Korli and brought her over to House Grey-Mane for a meal with the clan. As he expected, his brother’s wife laid down the law, sitting Korli down with a full plate of eggs, venison sausage, apple cabbage stew and flatbread with snowberry juice to wash it down. Clan Grey-Mane was poor in goods but at least it didn’t starve.

Across from Fralia, Tilma grinned openly. Vignar and Eorlund’s sister breakfasted with the clan most days, as the Companions tended to eat last night’s leftovers for their first meal, and there was no point cleaning up when all of them were wandering around in search of arms, armour and mead. If Eorlund hadn’t spoken for the girl, she might well have done so, as she wasn’t getting any younger and the Companions generated a lot of housework. None of them would have turned Korli out, not after hearing her story… and making a few educated guesses on seeing the girl in daylight.

“I was going to teach her the basics of fletching,” Eorlund told his wife with a roll of his eyes. “She doesn’t need muscle for that, only keen eyes and a deft hand.”

“I can work,” Korli added after swallowing a mouthful of food. She ate with the mincing fussy manners of a Cyrod, all “please” and “thank you” and small bites. Her accent was definitely Bruma, clipped consonants and drawling R’s that wouldn’t have sounded different to the Kreathling or Whiterun accent to the uneducated ear. But Vignar had spent forty years in the Legion and could damned well tell the difference.

“I’m sure you can, dear, but you’re very thin. Were those damned Imperials trying to starve you? Because that’s what it looked like.” Fralia wiped her hands on her apron. “Eorlund, she’s having breakfast with us. I’ve seen what the Companions call breakfast and it isn’t fit for a growing girl.”

“She’s eighteen,” Vignar told her. “I don’t think she’s going to get any taller.”

“But she can become stronger,” Fralia said firmly.

Avulstein, as the oldest child, had long since finished his breakfast and gone to do his chores before reporting to Jorrvaskr for training under Vilkas. He was as capable a warrior as he was a blacksmith – solid, but would never be great. Thorald, even at the age of ten, had a head for puzzles and numbers but was slower at skill of arms than most lads his days. Olfina, only nine, was already mastering the simple exercises Vilkas taught the whelps and had the promise of more athletic ability to come.

Vignar lingered over his breakfast until Eorlund took Korli to the Skyforge, before rising to help Fralia and Tilma with the dishes. Thorald and Olfina were sent out to milk the cow and goats, feed the chickens and then attend their morning lessons at the Temple of Kynareth. By mid-morning, Fralia herself would go to her stall in the marketplace to sell the trinkets Eorlund made of an evening after coming home while Tilma and Vignar would go to Jorrvaskr for the rest of the day.

“You needn’t say anything,” Fralia said as she used the Fire-Galdr to heat the dishwater. “I know who that girl looks like.”

“I think I know where she’s from,” Vignar answered as he reached for a towel to dry the dishes. “Not everyone’s forgotten the first marriage Dengeir made for his daughter, much as they might wish otherwise.”

“I thought the girl was dead,” Tilma said bewilderedly.

Vignar laughed shortly. “I bet Sigdrifa wishes she was. It would explain why the lass wants to join the Companions and be the best Nord she can be.”

Fralia began to wash the dishes and Vignar to dry them, with Tilma putting them away. No one was too good to do chores in Clan Grey-Mane; even Nord nobles were meant to get their hands dirty.

“Ulfric wrote to me a couple weeks ago,” Vignar finally said after a few minutes’ silence. “Bjarni’s of an age to foster and the boy’s apparently too rambunctious for most of Eastmarch’s Thanes, so he wants us to take him for a year or so.”

“We should take Egil too,” Fralia observed, scrubbing a pot. “Gods know that Sigdrifa probably doesn’t give them any affection.”

“Ralof and Galmar do. Egil’s going to the Vigilants because the Cyrods are making noises about ‘fostering’ him in Cyrodiil like Torygg and Siddgeir. He’s a serious lad, so it’d probably suit him.” Vignar sighed as he handed a dry dish to Tilma. “There’s going to be a storm over this when Sigdrifa finds out.”

Fralia gave him a wise wry look. “Let it come. Storms – and swords – can be broken and lies are always revealed. I think Korli already knows this and _that’s_ why she sought out the Companions.”

…

The mornings were given over to working for Eorlund at the Skyforge, which Korli learned was deeply magical and bound what the old wonder-smith called ‘virtue’ into the Companions’ signature steel weapons. She had to relearn everything she’d ever learned of enchantment, for the strength imbued into the steel came from the smith (“Every soul gem contains a breath stolen from Kyne,” Eorlund claimed), and had to begin from the basics to learn smith-craft. He was a stern but fair teacher, grudging words but unstinting when she earned his praise, and endlessly patient.

In the afternoons, she went to Vilkas to join Avulstein and Athis in learning the art of combat. The arms master suffered no fools and had little tolerance for slacking, but like Eorlund he shared his knowledge freely, demonstrating competency in just about every weapon he touched – except archery. Everyone agreed that he had no skill there, and so Aela took over those lessons. Farkas, endlessly patient and kind, had them performing calisthenics after lunch so that when they went to Vilkas, they were tired and therefore would learn the easiest and least exhausting way to fight. Every third day, either Athis or Avulstein would give a lesson in their respective skills – dagger for the former and light armour for the latter – and on the third of those days, Vilkas called her forward.

“I know that I said we don’t use magic around here, but Kodlak and Skjor have reminded me that spellswords exist,” he said with a grimace. “What spells do you know?”

“In Destruction, Flames, Frostbite, Sparks, Firebolt, Ice Spike and Lighting Bolt,” Korli answered cautiously. “In Alteration, Oakflesh, Telekinesis and Transmute. In Illusion, Clairvoyance and Muffle. Restoration, Healing, Lesser Ward and Healing Hands.”

Vilkas’ eyebrow rose. “You’ve had more training than some court wizards.”

“My paternal relatives were Blades,” Korli admitted reluctantly. “I was learning magic practically from birth. Afterwards, well… you know what happened.”

The Companion nodded grimly. “Aye. Skjor accompanied Ulfric and Sigdrifa back to Skyrim and saw what happened to Bruma and Cloud Ruler Temple. Too many good people lost because of a madman and a dead god. Give me something worth fighting and dying for.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him on that. Wasn’t that why she’d come to Jorrvaskr in the first place? Better to die with honour than cowering in hopes of avoiding whatever assassin, Thalmor Justicar or Penitus Oculatus agent wanted to make sure of the Aurelii.

“So _you_ will be teaching these two how to avoid Destruction spells in combat,” Vilkas continued. “Most spellswords don’t go above the spells you know, as they need to combine steel and magic. I also have no objections to you practicing with them – but understand that Companions prefer steel to magic. It’s usually more reliable and less dangerous to the wielder.”

So every ninth day, Korli took to throwing firebolts at Athis and ice spikes at Avulstein so that they learned to dodge out of the way, just as she learned to become more proficient in a dagger from Athis and how to be comfortable in light leather armour from Avulstein. Companions, it seemed, were expected to be as proficient in as many weapons and techniques as possible – and to share what they knew with their Shield-Siblings.

The evenings were given to feasting and boasting. As Athis had observed, it was Korli’s job to serve the mead for the first part of the evening, as Tilma was generally run off her feet by then. During this time she learned how the jobs the Companions accepted were divided between them: Skjor and Vignar took the ones where experience counted, Aela handled the extermination of beasts and the selling of their carcasses, and Farkas and Vilkas handled everything from rogue giants to covens of necromancers. Avulstein and Athis accompanied whoever needed them – or felt they could use the experience.

Korli had been there for three months when Farkas called her over after training. “Got somethin’ for ya,” the big man rumbled. “Skjor an’ Vignar reckon you’re ready for it an’ Eorlund’s given us leave to send ya.”

She clasped her hands to conceal their trembling. “Okay. What is it?”

“Someone has been causing trouble for someone. I need ya to rough them up to remind them of their obligations,” Farkas answered slowly. “No killin’, just an arse-kickin’.”

She knew that sometimes, a Companion would champion someone who couldn’t champion themselves, applying the rod to punish an offender. The criteria were that there had to be a true offence, as defined by Nord honour, and that the target had to deserve it. Companions weren’t bullies or hired thugs, after all.

“Who?” she asked quietly.

“Sinmir. He’s that lout in iron armour who reckons Commander Caius can’t do his job.” Farkas sighed gustily. “Thing is, he’s been pickin’ fights with the Battle-Borns an’ said somethin’ inappropriate to Alfhild. Olfrid an’ Vignar have been fightin’ too much over politics to send Avulstein to handle it an’ Sinmir will go bitchin’ to Ulfric if Athis does it, so we’re sending in ya. A little girl kickin’ his arse will teach him some manners.”

“He’s got six inches and twice my weight on me!” Korli blurted.

“Yeah, an’ he hasn’t swung his axe in five years an’ spends most of his days drinkin’.” Farkas chewed his bottom lip. “If ya want somethin’ else, Aela could use a hand killin’ some wolves in the Pale.”

Korli inhaled shakily. “I’ll do it. Dumb and drunk. Even I should handle that, right?”

Farkas smiled. “I’m sure ya can.”

…

Just in case, Farkas followed Korli to the Bannered Mare, where Sinmir was already three meads in and tossing insults at the Imperials in the crowd. Among the tall blonds that made up most of Whiterun’s population, the shorter, olive-bronze young woman stood out. Her leather armour left her arms and calves bare and while she’d been eating good for three months, she was still wiry and a bit too thin. Sinmir would underestimate her.

Tonight, important guests stayed at the Bannered Mare: Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric’s huscarl and consort, and Ralof Storm-Hammer, his personal hearthman. They’d accompanied young Bjarni Ulfricsson, who was going to be fostered with the Grey-Manes for the next year or so, and Balgruuf had to grit his teeth because despite Ralof’s exile it wasn’t wise to piss off the Jarl of Windhelm. Ulfric was still pissed over his imprisonment after the Markarth Incident and Whiterun was still vulnerable to raids.

“Sinmir?” Korli asked, coming up to the man where he sat with Ralof and Galmar around the firepit.

“That’s me,” Sinmir answered with a smirk. “You’re that Redguard brat who joined the Companions, right?”

“For starters, I’m a Nord as my mother was a Nord, and secondly, a true Nord wouldn’t pick fights with those who can’t fight back and make indecent suggestions to a woman who wants nothing to do with him,” Korli countered. “You have the choice of paying Alfhild Battle-Born wergild or a Companion taking it out of your mead-sodden hide and _then_ paying it regardless. Your choice.”

“Run back to the forge, brat,” Sinmir sneered. “I don’t fight-“

As Farkas had taught her, Korli pulled her fist back and launched a punch that caught Sinmir in the nose, snapping his head back. He fell off the bench as Galmar and Ralof rose hastily. No Nord would get in the way of a good brawl.

“Ten septims on the big one!” Galmar announced with relish as Sinmir stumbled to his feet.

“Drive that snowback into the ground!” demanded Idolaf Battle-Born.

Korli wasn’t a fantastic brawler but Sinmir was drunk enough to make it an even fight. What astonished Farkas most of all was her ability to take a punch that would have had someone tapping out; instead, Korli rose to her feet, lips and nose bleeding, and drove her fist just under the iron breastplate Sinmir habitually wore. Every man in the Bannered Mare winced, even those who hated the Stormcloak supporter.

“Ready to give up?” she demanded after spitting out blood.

“Fucking whore,” Sinmir wheezed.

“Every woman who defies you is a whore because she won’t fuck you, I suppose. I’m just a scrawny little Bruma Nord whose own family didn’t want her… and I’m probably twice the Nord you’ll ever be.” Korli drew her bruised fist back. “I’ll give you one more chance to give up. After that, you’ll be waking up in the Temple with the Jarl’s Steward ready to collect the wergild.”

“Fuck you!”

“No thanks. I have standards.” Korli’s fist connected with Sinmir’s chin, knocking him out cold.

“Trust Sinmir to cost me ten septims,” grumbled Galmar as he paid Ralof the due amount.

“It’s cheaper than the mead he would have drunk tonight,” the sun-blond hearth-man said cheerfully.

“I suppose.” Galmar gave Korli a frank gaze. “We could use someone like you in Windhelm.”

Korli’s laughter was harsh. “As if the mighty Stormcloaks would consider the likes of me a true Nord. I’ll stay with the Companions, thanks.”

She turned for the door and Farkas followed her outside.

“You got beef with the Stormcloaks,” he observed.

“My mother’s one,” she said shortly. “I’m dead to her and she’s dead to me.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed calmly. “But remember, we’re neutral. Vignar’s pushing it an’ we may have to retire him if he continues to get involved in politics. Companions don’t pick sides in a political war.”

“In a perfect world, the Legion, the Stormcloaks and the Thalmor would just wipe each other out and let the rest of us live in peace,” she said with a sigh, hugging herself as her hands glowed golden with the healing magic she knew. “But that won’t happen.”

“Probably not. All we can do is protect the people of Skyrim.” Farkas handed her a pouch of coin. “Your first hundred septims. Spend it wisely.”

He smiled at her stunned expression before leading her back to Jorrvaskr.


	3. What Family Does

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence, fantastic racism, emotional trauma and mentions of death, genocide, war crimes, imprisonment, child abuse and child abandonment.

Bjarni Ulfricsson was eight years old and already stood almost five feet tall. With tangled sable hair and bright aqua eyes with brown flecks in them, his jaw was already square and his build promised muscle to match his height. There was a cheerfulness unexpected in the son of a Thalmor prisoner and a ruthless Shieldmaiden, and he automatically assumed everyone was his friend. Korli should have hated him, but she couldn’t, so she settled for trying to avoid him by burying herself in training. Eorlund was trusting her to work the smelter by the gates, which the young Adrianne Avenicci allowed out of awe for the more experienced blacksmith’s work, and Aela was taking her out on hunts in the plains surrounding Whiterun. Her fight with Sinmir had garnered her some fame in the Hold.

“There’s word of an ice wraith at Bleak Falls Barrow,” Aela said one morning two weeks after the fight with Sinmir. “All Nords kill one to prove they’re an adult – or they should, at least. In some more conservative Holds, you wouldn’t even be allowed to speak in the Moot until you had the scars to prove it.”

“Sounds fun,” Korli answered with a shudder. She’d heard stories about the ice wraiths, the ghosts of winter-dead Nords who hadn’t gone to Sovngarde or Kyne and so wandered the frozen wastes, looking to warm themselves in the blood of living things.

“They’re not so bad if you keep your nerve,” Aela told her with a smile. “You have the nerve, I’m sure of it.”

“Let’s go,” Korli said, turning for the door.

Bleak Falls Barrow indeed had an ice wraith. It also had an infestation of bandits that had been raiding Riverwood and Whiterun’s southern farms. Aela, more pragmatic than Skjor or Vilkas, had absolutely no qualms about sneaking up on them and using a bow to kill them. “Use your magic,” she advised quietly. “There’s no dishonour in using whatever works.”

“Vilkas would say we should only use steel,” Korli pointed out.

“He’s very rigid in his beliefs. Those of us who have lived a little understand that sometimes, a compromise must be made between honour and survival.” Aela smiled wryly. “A lesson you’re already familiar with.”

So she used her bow and Korli used her magic to clear out the bandits from the watchtower, the ice wraith lurking around the path to the tomb, the bandits on the stairs and those in the front room. After the Dunmer who’d stolen some golden claw got himself killed by the draugr, they switched to daggers, and Korli realised that the undead followed the same set of patterns taught to her by Vilkas. _“The Nine Blocks and Blows of Ysgramor,”_ he’d called them, supposedly the foundation of all Nord swordsmanship. While they were still dangerous, they were predictable, and the two women came out the victors.

Aela quite casually looted the grave goods of the tomb’s undead and Korli, with a shrug, followed suit. Those antique golden coins were still worth something in the marketplace and the jewellery would be worth even more. They dodged traps and eventually reached the inner sanctum, where the so-called “king-draugr” was entombed. According to Aela, it would probably Shout like the Tongues of old, but would either know the force Shout or one that tore one’s weapon from one’s hand.

Korli was drawn to an oddly glowing carving in the curved wall as Aela looted the place bare. By the time she’d absorbed the meaning of the Word – Fus or ‘force’ – she was too entranced to properly block against the king-draugr that rose, growling, from its black stone sarcophagus. Even with her Oakflesh spell, she took a fearful hit, cracking her ribs and earning a wicked wound down the length of her back on the right side.

Aela killed the king-draugr with three precisely placed arrows, then made Korli drink a disgusting healing potion that eased the pain enough for her to leave the tomb. The Huntress, laden with the pack of loot, led her through the long way back because the entrance was closer to Whiterun instead of emerging in Falkreath Hold. “What were you thinking?” she demanded.

“The word – it glowed,” Korli said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what happened, only that I understood it!”

“Eorlund will skin me alive and that’ll be after Kodlak’s done with me,” Aela said with a sigh. “I got careless, you got bespelled. I hope Danica isn’t busy. We’re coming into autumn and the last rush of jobs before winter comes. We can’t have a whelp down.”

It was a long painful walk back to Whiterun and Korli managed to keep her mouth shut, mostly just hissing in pain. By the time they reached the Temple of Kynareth, she was half-fainting, and Danica quickly took charge. She didn’t remember much after that because the High Priestess gave her a sleeping potion.

She awoke on a stone bed in the Temple, the air scented with lavender, chimes and tricking water echoing around the stone-walled room. Her ribs were bandaged and her magicka felt low.

“Hanging moss and blue mountain flower,” said Danica from beside her. “It heals you, fortifies you, but drains your magicka.”

“How…?” Korli croaked up. She wasn’t in pain, at least.

“You are easier to read than you think, child of Kynareth. The story of your life is written in the scars on your body, spoken by what you muttered while unconscious.” The priestess leaned over, hands glowing golden. “You will have another scar and a lesson to go with it.”

Later that day, healed enough to move, she crossed the square to Jorrvaskr as there was no point in keeping her at the Temple. Farkas, his expression grim, got the door for her. “Kodlak wants to talk to ya,” he said brusquely.

Kodlak was, as always, in his office. Tilma thrust a bowl of wheat and mountain flower gruel in her hands before she’d even let the Harbinger talk. Aela, shamefaced, was leaning against the wall beside the bookcase.

“I am told you’ll need to heal for three or four weeks before doing more than light duties,” the Harbinger said after a long moment of tense silence. “Aela assumed too much… and you allowed her to believe you more competent than you are.”

“We were doing just fine until that glowing word entranced me!” Korli burst out defensively.

“Yes, so Aela has said. But even using stealth and magic, you’re not capable of taking on a king-draugr unspelled, let alone distracted by some strange dragonish word,” Kodlak said severely. “Brawls and hunts, aye. You can handle those. But an entire group of bandits and a tomb full of draugr? Not yet. There’s a reason why such jobs are left to Farkas and Vilkas, who have spent their entire life training and working as a team.”

Korli flushed with shame and fell silent.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been working yourself to the bone for the past two weeks,” Kodlak continued. “This isn’t the Workhouse, where you must labour from dawn to dusk to earn a pittance. You’ve barely spent any time at House Grey-Mane, I’m told. Why _is_ that?”

“I have lots to learn,” Korli said sullenly. “I want-“

Kodlak fixed her with a mild but stern gaze. “That is true, but not the entire truth. Did you do something wrong?”

“No!” Korli’s voice cracked. “It’s none of your business!”

“As Harbinger, the one who keeps the Companions on the path of honour, it _is_ my business when a Companion lies,” Kodlak countered with a sigh. “Nord honour is being honest with yourself… and your Shield-Siblings.”

“Is this necessary?” Aela demanded, cheeks flushed red as her hair. “She’s _injured_ , Kodlak. She doesn’t need you interrogating her like she’s a criminal!”

“You would allow a Shield-Sister to continue in dishonour?” Kodlak asked the Huntress pointedly.

“I’d wait until she was well enough to defend herself,” Aela shot back.

Korli was shivering with reaction and shame. She was going to get thrown out of Jorrvaskr, she was certain of it.

Tilma, hitherto forgotten, spoke up. “Aela has a point, Kodlak Whitemane, and you should be ashamed of yourself for letting the lass be pushed beyond her endurance. You’ve taken on more jobs than we have hands for. Korli made mistakes and Aela made mistakes, but _you_ should have been paying attention in the first place.”

Now it was Kodlak’s turn to flush an ugly mottled red. Tilma placed a hand on Korli’s shoulder and helped her to rise. “I see everything and know everything in this hall. If you’d bothered to ask Vignar what was going on, he’d have been able to tell you why the lass has been avoiding young Bjarni so you could have helped her. You chide him for his interest in politics, but he knows more of what’s going on outside Jorrvaskr than you, the one who’s supposed to keep Skyrim on the honourable path!”

“Y-You…” Korli stuttered out.

“We know, lass. We weren’t going to bring it up until you were ready, but Kodlak’s forced the issue.” Tilma’s expression was grim. “If you’d paid attention to anything outside of seeking a cure for your self-inflicted problem, Kodlak Whitemane, you’d have known that Sigdrifa Stormsword most certainly was _not_ a Shieldmaiden when she married my nephew Ulfric. In fact, she’d been married to the son of the Blades Grandmaster and had a daughter with him, one she pretended never existed after the Great War.”

“Companions have nothing to do with politics, Tilma.” Kodlak had recovered himself.

“Well, Jorrvaskr certainly doesn’t exist on an island! You’re supposed to remind the Jarls of what honour is and you can’t do that without a working knowledge of the current political situation!” Tilma took Korli’s hand. “I’ll leave Aela’s punishment to the Circle but Korli’s can wait a few weeks. Until then she can stay with us. Bjarni’s of an age to know the truth and if Sigdrifa has a problem with it, she can go piss in the wind!”

Before Kodlak could respond, she led Korli out, and Aela was on their heels.

“Skjor told me the daughter had died!” the Huntress exclaimed.

“If I were being charitable to my niece-in-law, I’d assume she had every reason to believe so,” Tilma said, wrapping a soft woollen blanket around Korli’s shoulders. “But I know she’s sent intelligence missions into Cyrodiil. There was no way she couldn’t have known after a year or two.”

Korli made a choking noise and to her horror, tears began to seep down her cheeks.

“I’m not sure she should go to House Grey-Mane tonight,” Aela said quietly. “She can stay in my room.”

Tilma visibly throttled down her temper. “Maybe you’re right. We need to prepare Bjarni for the news. If I was a Companion, I’d go straight up to Windhelm and punch Sigdrifa in the nose!”

Aela smiled thinly. “Give Korli a year or two and she might just do it herself.”

She took Korli by the shoulder. “Come on, Shield-Sister. I helped get you into this mess. Let’s see if I can help get you out of it.”

“Th-Thank you,” Korli whispered through her tears.

“It’s what family does.”


	4. In the Underforge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, war crimes, genocide, religious conflict, child neglect, child abuse and child abandonment. This story’s going to be a prequel because I don’t fancy covering fifteen years in one go – and there will be canon divergences because of Korli’s presence, including who and who doesn’t become a werewolf. Aela, Farkas and Vilkas are all in their early twenties around 185 while Skjor is in his late thirties, Kodlak in his late forties, and Vignar in his early fifties.

The Underforge throbbed with power like a heartbeat and Aela breathed in time to it, letting the energy of the earthbones soothe her anxiety. Korli was in good hands at House Grey-Mane, given the time she needed to heal from more than physical wounds, and now the Circle met to decide the consequences for Aela’s part in the affair. She wouldn’t be cast out, because the Companions were short-handed, but there was the possibility of being busted back down to the junior ranks – even becoming a whelp again.

Skjor was the first to enter, giving her a sympathetic smile. He was more pragmatic than Kodlak, placing the needs of the Circle – and the pack – above the occasionally nit-picky definition of honour. “Tilma told Kodlak a few things he needed to hear,” was all the Axe-Bearer said before taking his place in the east.

Vilkas was next to arrive and his expression was troubled. He was the most loyal and obedient to Kodlak but his volatile temper was what kept him from being named the Harbinger’s potential successor. “I did some reading in the archives before coming here,” he said without preamble. “If what you and Korli say is true-“

“She didn’t lie,” Aela interrupted. “She may have omitted the reason as to why she was avoiding the Grey-Mane family and overworking herself, but she didn’t lie. I saw her expression. She was entranced by that damned Dragonish script.”

Skjor stood a little straighter. “Kodlak didn’t mention _that_ to me.”

“I’m assuming it’s more than some strange spell?”

“Did she tell you what the glowing word meant?” Vilkas asked, his gaze intent.

“Force… Fus… I think.” Aela looked between them. “I’ve seen half a dozen of those walls and never been entranced by one… or been able to read it.”

“There are very few people who can without training from the Greybeards,” Vilkas said after a moment’s pause. “It’s the ancient tongue of the dragons – Dovahzul. It _is_ possible the Blades might have known a bit of it… but it’s the glowing that clinches it.”

“Well, don’t hold us in suspense,” Skjor said dryly. “Tell us what it means.”

“Not until my brother, Kodlak and Vignar arrive.” Vilkas’ jaw was set in its familiar mulish way. “It’s bigger than a careless Companion and an evasive whelp.”

Farkas arrived soon enough, a frown on his features. “Kodlak’s pissed, but not as pissed as Vignar an’ Eorlund,” he reported. “I didn’t even know Eorlund knew some of them words.”

Despite the situation, Aela couldn’t help but grin. Eorlund was a taciturn man and for him to be reduced to swearing, he must be truly angry.

“I wouldn’t laugh if I was ya. Ya ain’t doing jobs until Korli can fight again, ‘cause Eorlund wants ya to do her jobs at the forge,” Farkas told her. “Sounds fair to me. Ya were more worried about loot than the whelp even though the king-draugr wasn’t awake yet.”

Aela winced. Hard, but fair. “I’ll accept that.”

Vignar and Eorlund arrived together. While the blacksmith wasn’t technically of the Circle, he was counted in their ranks for the vote and had free access to the Underforge at all times. “We gave her another sleeping draught. Danica says sleep is the best medicine at the moment,” Vignar said.

“Have you told Bjarni yet?” Aela asked.

“Fralia did. Turns out Sigdrifa told the boys their sister was killed by the Thalmor.” Vignar made a sour expression. “That boy has Ulfric’s temper and knows far too many obscenities for his age. No wonder he’s been fostered with us.”

“We’ll be formally adopting her,” Eorlund added. “I know Sigdrifa and I don’t trust her as far as I could throw her. But she won’t dare send Dark Brotherhood after a Grey-Mane.”

“Jorrvaskr’s aegis should be enough to protect her,” Vilkas said flatly.

“In better times I’d have agreed, but the new Speaker is a failed Shieldmaiden named Astrid, and rumour has Sigdrifa as her best friend and customer,” Vignar answered grimly. “There’s nothing bar the will of Talos the Stormsword holds sacred, and I’d swear by Wuuthrad that if it contradicted her own desires, she’d ignore even that.”

“Are you sure the Empire isn’t the better option?” Skjor asked tersely. “I think Mede’s a coward, but Ulfric and his supporters are doing some dishonourable things in the Old Holds.”

“Sigdrifa is constrained by Ulfric and Galmar,” Vignar said with a sigh. “But I’m looking to the future. A Blades-blooded Companion will be a rebuke to the Empire and an inspiration to Nords everywhere.”

“We don’t play politics,” Farkas rumbled.

“No, but we can’t pretend we live apart from them.”

Aela grimaced in agreement but said nothing as Kodlak arrived.

“Today, the Circle is gathered here to decide on a matter of honour,” the Harbinger said gravely. “Aela the Huntress has admitted that she was careless of the whelp in her charge due to gold-hunger-“

“I didn’t say that!” Aela yelped in outrage.

“How else am I supposed to interpret your looking for loot while Korli was drawn to this supposedly glowing wall?” Kodlak asked gravely.

“It wasn’t ‘supposedly’. Korli was in a trance when she looked at it.”

“Master,” Vilkas interrupted. “I believe Aela and Korli in this. When I heard about it, I did some research in the archives. There has been precedence for Word Walls, to give the rough translation of their name in Dragonish, to entrance certain people.”

“Is that so, Vilkas? Well, your scholarship is without peer among the Companions.” Kodlak folded his beefy arms and fixed the lean warrior with a stern stare.

“We have had three instances of Companions in five thousand years who were affected by these Word Walls,” Vilkas said, holding the old man’s gaze. “Wulfharth Ash-King. Istvar Tongue-of-Shor. And a whelp who went by the name of Hjalti Early-Beard in the six moons he spent with us, but went on to be called something else by most of Tamriel – Talos.”

“They were all Dragonborn!” Vignar exclaimed in shock.

“Yes.” Vilkas’ iron-grey gaze was grim. “It is possible that Korli may be Dragonborn. Though to prove it, we’d have to take her to another Word Wall and observe the results.”

Skjor’s mouth tightened. “Arius Aurelius always swore that he was the grandson of Martin Septim, but he was also crazy as a loon. Irkand Aurelius once told me when we fought together at the Battle of Bravil.”

“Dustman’s Cairn is the tomb of an old Harbinger that reportedly has a shard of Wuuthrad located in it,” Vilkas continued. “I want to confirm this before we decide what to do with her. Farkas can take her. The emergence of a Dragonborn promises great turmoil ahead.”

“That’s as may be, but Aela was still greedy and careless,” Kodlak finally said after a moment.

“I’ve already agreed to assist Eorlund at the Skyforge over the next few weeks and forgo any jobs during that time,” Aela told him. “I was careless, even if I dispute the judgment I was greedy. I had every intention of sharing the loot with Korli, whose arms and armour are a disgrace even for a whelp.”

“I want her to forge her own – and she’s meant to be working with me at the Skyforge, not gallivanting around the countryside,” Eorlund rumbled. “We need more whelps.”

“After Arnbjorn, I’m in no rush to take whoever arrives on our doorstep,” Kodlak rumbled.

“Then we must accept less jobs,” Skjor said bluntly. “Or bring Farkas and Vilkas into the pack.”

“They’re not ready.” Kodlak’s jaw was set. “And I’m wondering if continuing Terrfyg’s bargain is a good idea.”

“It’s served us well since the Oblivion Crisis,” Skjor pointed out.

“Has it? I wonder.” Kodlak folded his arms. “I’ve decided that no more werewolves are to be made until I understand the full consequences of the choice… and discover if there is a cure.”

“There’s only one I know of and it’s frankly disgusting,” Aela answered. “It involves the death of an innocent.”

“There must be more than one means of curing oneself. Until it’s discovered, no more werewolves, and I would prefer that everyone refrain from using the beast blood. There is no honour in hunting like a beast.”

Aela opened her mouth to speak but Skjor gave her a quick shake of the head. They could pursue this later without the Harbinger’s presence inhibiting them.

“Have we considered reaching out to the coven who originally made the bargain?” Vignar suggested.

“After the Markarth Incident, I doubt they’d want to speak to us,” Kodlak answered. “No, we must handle this ourselves. It is our folly that led us here.”

_Your folly_ , Aela thought grimly.

“As for Aela and Korli, I will accept Eorlund’s suggested punishment,” the Harbinger continued. “I think we should add some lessons on Companion history to the whelps’ training. Vignar, you will oversee it.”

“Very well. It hurts no one to know our history,” Vignar agreed mildly. “May I include Bjarni in the lessons? It might be a pleasure to have a Jarl with an understanding of what honour truly entails.”

“I see no reason why not,” Kodlak agreed. “Dismissed.”

Aela waited until Kodlak and the twins were gone before exploding. “Every person is their own master in Jorrvaskr!”

“I know,” Vignar agreed gravely. “Kodlak sees much, but he doesn’t see everything.”

“It doesn’t matter for the moment,” Eorlund rumbled. “I must ask you and Skjor not to offer Korli the beast blood. Even if she isn’t Dragonborn, she can’t be… marked… by Daedric power to properly work the Skyforge.”

“Is that why no Grey-Mane has ever become moon-born?” Aela asked.

“Partially.” But the blacksmith wouldn’t elaborate.

“Agreed,” Skjor told him. “I doubt Vilkas will disobey Kodlak. And Farkas will likely follow his brother.”

“Our numbers are too few to do all we promise in a timely manner,” Vignar said with a sigh. “I will look among the ranks of the established sellswords. There’s surely one or two with some honour who’d like certain employment and glory.”

Skjor nodded. “Good idea. If Vilkas is right and Korli is Dragonborn… Skyrim will need our blades more than ever. Dragonborn only come in times of trouble and turmoil.”


	5. To Be a Grey-Mane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny, genocide, war crimes, imprisonment, religious conflict and child abuse/abandonment. Have some Bjarni.

Korli awoke to Bjarni perched at the end of her pallet.

“Water?” he asked, pouring and offering her a cup. He relaxed when she nodded and accepting, drinking the mountain flower-infused liquid. “They told me. When I grow up, I’m going to kill lots of Thalmor and Imperials.”

She spluttered the last mouthful of water, coughing from the seriousness of that statement.

“We’re Nords. The goldskins hate Nords, so we have to kill them before they kill us.” Bjarni looked genuinely confused at her shock.

“Not all Altmer, just the blackcoats – the Thalmor,” Korli finally answered after she regained her speech. “That’d be like saying all Nords are barbarian thugs who are barely civilised, to quote the bureaucrat in charge of the Workhouse back in Bruma.”

“Okay. Nurelion and Ulundil aren’t evil.” Bjarni chewed his lip. “Mother told us the Thalmor killed you.”

Korli paused for a long moment to choose her next words carefully. “She was away, saving your father from the Thalmor, when Cloud Ruler Temple fell. I suppose it made sense of her to think that.”

“Fralia said some bad words and Eorlund said a few more. I told them some of the words I know.” Now Bjarni’s face was alight with a big childish grin of mischief. “Do you think they’ll use them?”

“You never know.” Korli ran a hand through her hair. It was rank and greasy. She needed a bath. “I don’t suggest using them around adults. You could get in trouble.”

“Maybe not. Egil’s not here to tell on me.” Bjarni tilted his head. “Eorlund says the Grey-Manes are gonna adopt you. How come you won’t go to Windhelm? We’re family, right?”

That was news to Korli. “My place is in Jorrvaskr now.” If they hadn’t thrown her out for lying by omission. “I’m Eorlund’s apprentice.”

Bjarni grinned. “You’re going to make Skyforge Steel! When I grow up, I hope I get a weapon of some. Then I can kill all the blackcoats!”

Her little brother had been thoroughly educated that his life’s mission was to kill all the Thalmor and whatever else his parents dictated were enemies of Skyrim. “Skyforge Steel is meant to protect Skyrim, not massacre lots of people because someone said so. In Jorrvaskr, everyone is their own master and must decide what honour is to them. That’s why I went there, to see if I could learn to be a true Nord.”

“But you are a Nord. Mother’s a Nord and that means you’re a Nord.” Bjarni grinned again. “Ralof said you beat up Sinmir and cracked his nuts for him. Galmar wasn’t happy because he bet against you but Ralof bet for you. You should marry him. He teaches me and Egil fighting stuff. He’s kind of like our uncle.”

“I’m not looking to get married,” Korli said with a sigh, sitting up and wincing at the ache in her ribs. “I’ve got enough on my plate.”

“Okay.” Bjarni jumped up. “Fralia told me to tell her when you were awake.”

He scurried off and within minutes, Fralia entered the alcove, a healing potion and some gruel in hand. “How are you feeling, dear?”

“Why are you adopting me?” Korli blurted.

Fralia knelt by the pallet and handed the healing potion to Korli. “Because that mother of yours is a ruthless, dishonourable bitch who we have the misfortune of being kin by marriage to. She won’t hold the status of Companion as sacred, but she knows better than to try and have a Grey-Mane – one of her husband’s maternal kin – killed.”

This time, Korli waited until the shock had passed before drinking the potion down. Fralia had a sharp tongue, but she rarely used obscenity. Sigdrifa, it seemed, was not beloved by Clan Grey-Mane.

“Ulfric was a good lad,” Fralia continued, handing her the gruel. “But the Thalmor broke that… and Sigdrifa made sure all the broken shards of his compassion were honed sharp as one of Eorlund’s blades. Even if she were to die tomorrow, Ulfric would still hate all of merkind and think them all in cahoots with the Empire and the Dominion. That will reap a sorry harvest for the Stormcloaks in time, unless we can manage to teach Bjarni some basic decency.”

Korli tentatively ate some gruel. It was delicious. “If Ulfric had half a brain, he’d reach out to the Dunmer. They loathe the Empire and the Altmer.”

“From what Vignar’s told me about what Athis has said, the Dunmer of Windhelm would sooner worship their Four Corners of the House of Troubles rather than join the Stormcloaks. Sigdrifa ruled while Ulfric was imprisoned, you see, and a lot of Argonians and Dunmer froze or starved to death because she gave most of the food and fuel to the Nords. Skjor brought Athis here after he damned near killed Galmar’s brother Rolff…”

“Sounds like her,” Korli said bitterly. “If it isn’t useful, she discards it.”

“Indeed. And I won’t get into what she did to the Reachfolk – her own mother’s people!” Fralia sighed. “You’re meant to be healing, not listening to… well…”

“It gives me some context.” Korli sighed herself and ate the rest of the gruel. “How bad was Aela’s punishment?”

“She’s working the bellows and fletching arrows under Eorlund until you’re healed,” Fralia answered. “As for you, you’ll be learning the history of the Companions. You can’t act like a true Nord if you know nothing of your own culture.”

So began a regime of learning that matched anything Esbern had ever taught her when she was a child. From Danica Pure-Spring she learned the rites of Kynareth and from Fralia she learned those of the old ways; Vignar and Vilkas drilled her in Companion history while Tilma told her stories as they cleaned Jorrvaskr from top to bottom. Farkas had her running around the courtyard on her second week out of bed and around Whiterun with Avulstein and Athis by the fourth; Eorlund had her studying smithing books from the third. Much to her surprise, Bjarni was included in many of the lessons, and was even training with Vilkas and the whelps.

Six weeks after the disaster at Bleak Falls Barrow, Danica declared her fit to return to her usual duties with an admonishment not to overwork herself again or she’d find the priestess less than sympathetic.

“Welcome back,” Eorlund said with a rare smile. “Aela will be relieved to no longer work the bellows.”

It had been five moons since she came to Jorrvaskr by the time of the Holdmoot, where Jarl Balgruuf the Greater heard the cases and words of the Hold, decisions were made, and taxes paid. Korli found herself in a new dress and boots with a rabbit-fur mantle – Bjarni proudly informed her he’d trapped and tanned the rabbits himself – as she sat with the Grey-Manes across from their old friends-turned-rivals the Battle-Borns in the Great Hall of Dragonsreach. Things were tense for any number of reasons, including the rumour that Imperial taxes were being increased again… and if they couldn’t be paid in coin or goods, the tax officials were seizing land or family members for the Legion.

Balgruuf was a rangy man with platinum-blond hair who wore his silks comfortably; his wife Svanhild Ravencrone was dark-haired and deep-eyed, her hands and forearms tattooed in a familiar style. _Granma said that the Reach had once covered everything west of Whiterun…_

“So you want to add this Korli to your clan?” the Jarl asked when the Grey-Manes were presented to them.

“Yes. She’s Eorlund’s apprentice and her mother is married to a cousin of ours,” Vignar confirmed. “For reasons of politics, her mother’s people won’t claim her and her father’s family… well, the less said about them the better.”

“We’re well aware her birthname is Aurelia Callaina and that her mother left her to the Empire’s mercy after the Great War,” Svanhild observed serenely. “Her father has established himself in Hammerfell; we have trade dealings with Safiya, his new partner, and sent a gift to his son Cirroc’s birthing.”

“Between the Stormsword as a mother and the man who murdered the Emperor’s cousin as a father, the Imperials would have sent her to the Anvil Third to die an ignoble death,” Vignar answered. “She came to Jorrvaskr to be as true a Nord as she could manage; the Grey-Mane mantle isn’t as thick as it used to be, but it’s quite enough to fend off the chill of being a kinless clanless churl. She’s a Nord. She deserves a clan. We would be that clan.”

“Hmm…” Balgruuf leaned back in the Stallion Throne. “Technically, she should be of Falkreath’s royal clan.”

Korli found her voice. “Even in Bruma we heard of what Dengeir thought of mages, Jarl Balgruuf. I have just enough magic to be a witch in his eyes. As for Catriona’s clan… Things are hard for the Reacher Nords and many of the hill-clans won’t acknowledge them, so Lost Valley would have nothing to do with me. As for begging my mother… I would sooner walk barefoot over obsidian and gravel rather than ask her for anything.”

Balgruuf laughed sourly. “I appreciate the sentiment, believe me.”

Svanhild’s eyes were distant. “I see kin-strife and fire from heaven. But worse if she is not among us…”

She shuddered. “Adopt her, for what it’s worth. But her blood will tell in the end. Pray her soul is wrapped in bands of honour or we’ll all rue the day.”

“I’m not my father or mother,” Korli said softly. “I choose the path of honour.”

“We shall see.” Svanhild wrapped herself in her fur mantle and shuddered again.

A murmur spread across the hall, quickly stifled as Balgruuf raised a hand for silence. “Then it is approved. From now until the end of days, you are known as Korli Grey-Mane.”

Korli was too chilled by Svanhild’s prophecy to feel warmed by the decision. She wasn’t her father or mother. She would be better.


	6. Proving Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Bit of a timeskip and some change ups in my usual ships.

“Kodlak’s still sulking about Farkas choosing the beast-blood,” Aela observed as she and Skjor climbed the stairs to the Skyforge. “As if our ability to complete jobs hasn’t trebled.”

Skjor grimaced in agreement. Over the past year, Kodlak had become more obsessed with curing his lycanthropy – and dragging the rest of the Circle along with him. As if he hadn’t revelled in the strength gifted to him when he was younger. Now it seemed almost like cowardice, his wanting to avoid paying the piper for the dance he’d had.

“I think he thinks the choice was made without proper thought or that you pressured him into it,” Skjor finally answered. “I know you two are moon-wed-“

“That came after he chose to become moon-born,” Aela interrupted. “Before that, I think he chose it because it was something that was wholly and solely his. You know that everyone assumes him and Vilkas are a united entity.”

“And he doesn’t particularly care about the afterlife,” Skjor mused. “We shouldn’t have had to sneak around, but…”

“But Kodlak assumes that his advice has the force of law,” Aela finished flatly. “He’s… I don’t know. Since the sickness has taken him, he fears death and what follows.”

Neither of them wanted to be the first to say that Kodlak had fallen from the path of courage and perhaps even the path of honour. He was still Harbinger, after all.

Skjor looked towards the Skyforge, where Eorlund worked the bellows as Korli heated a bar of metal in its sacred earth-fire. It had been a year or so since she’d joined Jorrvaskr and while she’d never gained the height she should have as a Nord, she’d grown compactly muscled and curvaceous. Not for moons had she made a misstep in honour, though she was still prone to working almost as much as Eorlund. According to those whose opinions mattered, she was as competent as any village smith, though not yet up to Eorlund’s high standards.

_But she can wonder-smith…_ Eorlund trusted her to forge daggers and arrowheads of Skyforge Steel, to help shape and enamel the special plate worn by most of the senior male Companions, and to sharpen the weapons and temper the armour. In a year or two she’d be considered a master, permitted to sign her work with her own sigil.

“We need to talk when your work is done,” Skjor told her as she folded the steel bar. “Your Proving has come.”

“Did Kodlak tell you that or was the decision your own?” Eorlund asked from the bellows.

“The Circle decided it,” Skjor told him. “Even Kodlak conceded she was ready.”

“Yet Athis and Avulstein aren’t,” Korli remarked in her low sweet voice.

“We’ve been waiting for a proper situation for Athis’ Proving,” Aela answered. “Given that he will be serving as an example of honour in Eastmarch-“

“The holmgang? Ulfric will eat iron and shit nails if a Dunmer participates in that,” Korli noted. “And that will be _nothing_ compared to the Stormsword’s reaction.”

Skjor allowed himself a savage grin. “That’s why if you succeed in your Proving, you’ll be accompanying him. Sigdrifa claims to decide who does and doesn’t have the heart of a Nord? Well, even an elf can have the heart of a Nord, as Henantier the Outsider proved three thousand years ago.”

“Is this an act of honour or an unsubtle reminder that the Companions may do as they please within the bounds of Jorrvaskr?” Korli asked bluntly as she put the steel bar into the Skyforge to heat again. Nine times folded, nine times heated, nine times sharpened were the weapons of the Companions.

Aela flushed under the scrutiny of those blue-green eyes. “I… don’t know.”

“Sending me to Eastmarch would be a thrown gauntlet,” Korli continued. “Skjor, you’re on reasonable terms with the Stormcloaks. You should accompany Athis… if my advice counts, being a whelp and all.”

“It does,” Skjor agreed softly. “It just angers me that… that…”

“Sigdrifa is a Shieldmaiden with what passes for their sense of honour who can’t quite grasp why people might despise her for her actions when she’s clearly doing what is best for Skyrim and the Nords,” Korli answered, pulling the bar from the fire. “She was raised to be a tool and so she treats everyone else as such. I used to be angry with her… but well, it’s like getting angry with a shark. The shark is perfectly logical in its world and getting angry with it for being a predator is pointless. All you can do is minimise the people who will be harmed by it.”

“Hircine’s Horns, I wish I could give you the beast-blood,” Skjor said after a long moment. “You understand the Prince of the Hunt and his viewpoint better than most.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Eorlund said pointedly.

“I don’t mention it to a lot of people but my granma Catriona was exiled from the Reach for a few years and came to Bruma to live as a herbwoman.” Korli began to fold the steel a second time. “Not because I’m ashamed of it or because I want to deceive the Companions, but it’s frankly none of Kodlak’s gods-damned business that I’m in communication with a Hagraven. He’d just tell me she’s a Daedric cultist who’s evil and irredeemable, even if she’s got more compassion and honour in one claw than some Stormcloaks have in their entire body.”

“I’ve had the privilege of meeting Catriona,” Aela said softly. “Her only failure was being too honourable to become a kinslayer.”

Even Skjor had heard of the former High Priestess of Hircine. “I’m guessing she taught you some of the Reach lore?”

“Not as much as she’d have liked, but enough,” Korli confirmed. “She told me I should embrace my heritage. I think she meant to become a witch like she’d been, but I chose to come to Jorrvaskr instead.”

She hammered the steel and it rang like a bell. “I don’t know what I’m going to do after becoming a full Companion. Eorlund tells me I’ve got a lot to learn and I know I’m not as honourable as I should be. I’ve never considered past that point. But now I must.”

Skjor smiled. “Worry about your Proving first. It is easier to live inside honour once you have understood what it is.”

…

“Something to be said for these idiots attacking us,” Korli said as she made sure of the last Silver Hand. “One of their weapons will make killing those damned draugr a lot easier.”

Farkas grinned at her. “That’s the spirit. Just don’t hit me with one, okay?”

The crude weapons of the Silver Hand weren’t as sharp as Skyforge Steel, but they didn’t need to be when the silver parted werewolf flesh like silk. Korli gathered up every weapon and tied them in a bundle but for one she used to deal with the draugr; she and Eorlund could find some use for the rest. Farkas wasn’t pleased to be attacked by the werewolf hunters; that scholar might’ve been a front to lure a Companion here.

The days of Korli getting surprised by a draugr were long gone, but the nine waves of them in Terrfyg’s tomb wearied even Farkas. He drank a healing potion as Korli used Healing magic on herself, her eyes straying to the Word Wall behind Terrfyg’s empty coffin. “Uh. Farkas, that Word’s glowing-“

“Go read it. I’ll stand watch.” So Vilkas was right, as usual. Korli was probably Dragonborn.

She was entranced as she had been at Bleak Falls Barrow, but Farkas was vigilant as his Shield-Sister absorbed the meaning. “Yol,” she breathed. “’Fire’.”

“Great. If ya learn to breathe fire like Wulfharth could, you can keep the hall warm at night,” Farkas told her with a grin.

“I’m no Dragonborn. Esbern and the Blades’ resident Tongue taught me a little Dragonish, I think, when I was little. That’s probably why I can read some of the Words.” Korli’s tone was dismissive. “Let’s bring this shard of Wuuthrad home. I think I know what I’m going to do as a Companion and for my masterpiece.”

Farkas didn’t argue with her. “The pieces were scattered during the Second Era…”

“And three or four shards more will be able to be pieced together with a few ingots of ebony,” Korli answered with a professional’s tone. “I’m coming to my journeyman year as a blacksmith anyway. If Kodlak and Eorlund permit it, I’m going to visit my cousins in Orsinium. Few can smith better than the Orcs.”

“You’re gonna leave?” Farkas asked as they left the tomb.

“No. Travel. Find pieces of Wuuthrad, learn more smithing techniques. I think half of Kodlak’s problem is that he hasn’t gone further than Solitude in years.” Korli smiled. “I don’t expect to be Harbinger, but I’d like to add to the knowledge of wonder-smithing as other Companions have the art of war.”

“Skjor and Aela are plannin’ to hunt a bear the size of a mammoth that’s attackin’ folks around Elinhir and Vilkas wants to travel to Solstheim ‘cause he’s killed one of everythin’ in Skyrim,” Farkas observed. “Can ya be spared?”

“If Athis becomes a full Companion, I think I can,” Korli said. “I won’t be leaving for at least six moons, I hope. But a hawk must fledge and leave its nest, or it will die. I don’t want to die having never seen places other than County Bruma and two Holds in Skyrim.”

Farkas supposed she was right.


	7. Kyne's Sacred Trials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Combining the Blessings of Nature and Kyne’s Sacred Trials quests (with some minor revisions) because I want to explore more of my head-canon for Skyrim’s pre-Talosite beliefs. Heljarchen is an Arthmoor mod.

“Korli, are you busy?”

“Not really,” Korli answered as she turned from the Shrine of Kynareth. “What’s up, Danica?”

The normally serene High Priestess had a troubled expression as she nodded to the door. “You need to see this.”

‘This’ was the Gildergreen, a sacred tree grown from a cutting from the Eldergleam, said to have been planted by Kyne herself in a sacred cave in Eastmarch. Seemingly overnight it had withered into dull brittleness, losing most of its leaves, and there an ugly scorched section on the trunk. No wonder Danica was perturbed, given it was a big draw for the religious pilgrims.

“It was taken by a lightning strike,” Danica continued, her tone troubled. “I’m sure it’s some sign from Kynareth but… I don’t know what it means.”

“Don’t ask me,” Korli said fervently. “I’m no cleric.”

“No, but you are a Companion who worships Kynareth. I think I know how to mend the tree, but I need someone to get a couple things for me.” Danica sighed. “A big dead tree isn't very inspiring if you're coming to worship the Divine of wind and rains. Kynareth gives life, and we need a living tree to be her symbol.”

“So it’s about the pilgrims then?” Korli asked, feeling a sudden sense of distaste.

“No! We don’t get as many as we used to before the Great War but…” She sighed again. “I don’t need Ulfric and his lot claiming that Kyne has withdrawn Her favour from Whiterun because we’re still loyal to the Empire.”

“Getting the Stormsword’s daughter to fix the tree would certainly stop it before it started,” Korli reluctantly agreed. “What do you need?”

“Eldergleam is older than metal, from a time before man or elves. To even affect it, you have to tap into the old magic.” Danica chewed her lip. “You'll have to deal with the Hagravens. I've heard about a weapon they've made for sacrificing Spriggans. It's called ‘Nettlebane.’ The hags terrify me, or I would have gone after it myself.”

“I’ve heard of the knife,” Korli said slowly. “It’s one of the most sacred artefacts of the Reachfolk.”

The High Priestess grimaced. “I wouldn’t call it sacred. But it can cut the Eldergleam so we can harvest the sap. Trees like this never really die. They only slumber. I think if we had some of the sap from the parent tree, we could wake up its child.”

“I’ll think about it,” Korli said after a moment’s thought. “I’ve got contacts you don’t and there might be an alternative. In the old ways, Kyne is the goddess of death and rebirth. Perhaps… well, I’m no cleric, but maybe this is about the renewal of nature instead of its preservation. I’d rather not tangle with the Matriarch of Orphan Rock, if you please. I’d never hear the end of it from my Granma.”

Danica blinked. “Hagravens are filthy creatures who worship Daedric Princes! They should be-“

“Be what? Wiped out like pests? You may disagree with the Stormcloaks but by the gods you sound like them at the moment,” Korli interrupted disgustedly. “There are rogue Hagravens just as there are rogue worshippers of the Aedra and just as many of both varieties who just want to be left alone. You want me to fix the tree? I do it my way or you can just learn to live with a dead tree.”

Danica flushed and looked away. Korli turned for Jorrvaskr, shaking her head. She’d just lost a lot of respect for the priestess.

Eorlund, as always, was at the Skyforge. “I saw Danica talking to you,” the blacksmith remarked as he sharpened Skjor’s sword. “Was it about the Gildergreen?”

Korli related the story and he frowned. “Pissing off the old gods is never wise. Maybe the Gildergreen’s died because she’s lost her way.”

“I’m not going to get into a fight with the Matriarch of Orphan Rock,” Korli said with a sigh. “But she’s right about Ulfric and Sigdrifa using this as a political weapon against Whiterun. What worries me is going into Eastmarch.”

“The Gildergreen can wait.” Eorlund puffed out his cheeks thoughtfully. “I think, before you go to Eldergleam Sanctuary, you should complete Kyne’s Sacred Trials. Old Froki Whetted-Blade in the Rift knows the most about them, but Torgeir up at Heljarchen could give you a few pointers for all he’s a Priest of Tsun. There’s old magic in Skyrim, green magic that lies in the earthbones. The Reachfolk know some of it, but not all of it. I just don’t think bringing a Hagraven’s weapon to Eldergleam is a good idea. If threatened, the tree brings forth Spriggans.”

“Can you do without me?” she asked.

“You’re leaving in a few moons for your wander-year anyway.” Eorlund smiled wryly. “Avulstein’s not any closer to his Proving and Skjor’s waiting for the next Holdmoot in Eastmarch for Athis’. I can spare you for a half-moon or so.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Kodlak was less pleased to see her leave but there wasn’t much he could do about it. In the two moons since her Proving, he’d become morose and ever more obsessed with curing his lycanthropy; she’d have to visit Glenmoril Cave on the way to Orsinium and see what her Granma had to say on the matter. No Companions could be spared because even with Farkas joining the Circle and taking the wolf-blood, they were still short-handed, no freelance mercenary being interested in Jorrvaskr’s rules. So she’d have to go alone.

That night she had dinner with the Grey-Manes instead of breakfast, giving farewells to her family. Bjarni was nine now and already five feet in height; he was going to be a big, strong man, more like the Atmorani of old than a modern Nord. He was an intelligent boy and pestered her for lessons in magic and stories of the Blades. Korli did as Catriona had done with her and taught him a little frost magic, a little lightning magic, but more about compassion and the value of life. Her little brother, Kyne willing, would be more accepting of other races than his parents and most Stormcloaks.

_Mother’s going to_ love _that,_ Korli mused as Bjarni and Thorald argued over the last sweet roll. _Sometimes I wonder if she’s capable of caring about anything other than Talos._

The next morning, she set out for Heljarchen and the Priest of Tsun who lived there. It was a brisk morning, the wind cold off the snowfields of the coast, and the few predators about were easily scared off with a blast of Frostbite. She stopped at Weynon Stones, a shrine to Talos built from the rubble of the legendary Weynon Priory, and killed two ice wraiths with Firebolt and the Skyforge Steel shortsword she’d forged after her Proving. Ice wraith teeth sold well, even if she wore one as a pendant to show she’d become an adult by the old rites when her scars weren’t visible.

Heljarchen was a small but bustling village with its own inn, alchemist and blacksmith. One cottage near the entrance stood out with its carvings of mammoth ivory depicting a whale and a burly bare-chested man holding an axe. This had to be Torgeir’s home, as the whale was the totem of Tsun, Shor’s Shield-Thane, gate-guard of Sovngarde, and the God of Endurance and Trials.

She knocked on the door and soon enough, it was answered by a tall, broad-shouldered man with balding snow-white hair and piercing green eyes. His robe was plain brown homespun and his ivory amulet was decorated with animal teeth and whale carvings. “Yes?” he asked ungraciously. “If Skald sent you, tell him to fuck off. If you’re here to preach the word of the Southron Divines to me, tell whatever priest sent you to fuck off. If you’re looking for the glory of ‘mighty Talos’, try Sigdrifa’s arse, because that’s the most likely place to find that sort of horker shit.”

“My birth-giver fed me that shit for eight years and it never impressed me; why would I start now?” Korli asked sardonically. “Eorlund sent me. I’m Korli Grey-Mane, his apprentice and Companion of Jorrvaskr.”

“What does he want?” Torgeir demanded.

“The Gildergreen’s been struck by lightning and Danica Pure-Spring asked me to mend it; Eorlund suggested I complete Kyne’s Sacred Trials before going to Eldergleam-“

“Froki knows more about it than me,” Torgeir interrupted.

“He’s also in the Rift, which is too close to Eastmarch for my comfort given the fact that a year or so ago, I shit in Sigdrifa’s morning porridge by proving her a liar,” Korli answered bluntly. “Eorlund told me you could give me the basics. I know enough Reach-lore and Nord myth to figure out the rest.”

For the first time since answering the door, Torgeir smiled. “So you’re _that_ one. I suppose I can spare you an hour or so. The Trials aren’t difficult, only strenuous and dangerous.”

Over a cup of mead, he explained what the Trials were: seven guardian spirits of the seven sacred predators of the Nords, all of whom had to be slain cleanly and with respect to show Kyne that she was more than a simple butcher. “Bring me a token to show you’ve done it,” he said as he handed her a vial of sacred oil. “Anoint yourself with the totems of the wolf, skeever and mudcrab. It will bring the guardians forth. When you’re done, return to me, and we will set you against the greater ones.”

The next six days were spent hunting and tracking the wolf, the skeever and the mudcrab across three Holds. Each of the Guardians summoned more mundane versions of their kind, which resulted in pelts and ivory and alchemical materials that she was able to sell in Heljarchen and Whiterun. She kept a tooth from the wolf and the skeever and one of the mudcrab’s smaller legs for Torgeir. When she stopped by Jorrvaskr on the way to hunt the Guardian Mudcrab, Aela was surprised and pleased she was undergoing the trials.

“I’ve always felt Kyne’s had Her hand on you,” the Huntress said. “In these times, we could use all the divine blessings we can get.”

On her return to Torgeir, the priest was a lot more cheerful. “So you’ve returned,” he said with a smile. “What tokens did you bring?”

Korli gave them to him and he nodded. “Ivory and chitin. Good. Leather can’t really hold a blessing, not in the old way.”

“I’m a wonder-smith, remember? Metal is best, but ivory and chitin are good too.”

Torgeir smiled wryly. “I forgot. But now you’ve got a challenge – the sabre cat, the mammoth and the bear. You might want to bring a friend.”

“Would Aela the Huntress be acceptable?” Korli asked carefully.

“The werewolf? Kyne and Hircine… well, they’re civil. Professional courtesy and all of that.” Torgeir blew out an explosive breath. “Only if she doesn’t use Hircine’s gifts. I’d hire a hunter, honestly. Less chance of offending Kyne.”

In the end, Korli decided to get herself a precious crossbow from Jorrvaskr’s armoury and hope for the best. Aela had indicated that there were more powers to a werewolf than the obvious shape-shifting. Better safe than sorry.

Somewhere south and east of Winterhold, near the Sea of Ghosts, Korli found the Guardian Sabre Cat. She managed to get off one bolt before it scented her and attacked, a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and claws. They rolled over, the Guardian’s claws piercing the leather armour she wore, but it released her when she shocked it with Sparks. After that, she drew her shortsword and called Flames to her hand. Several minutes and a few wounds later, it was dead, and she had a sacred pelt and fang as trophies.

She climbed up the chasm to Winterhold, healing herself on the way, and trudged to the local inn for the night. On the way back south she could go after the mammoth, which was near a giant’s camp. She intended to have the high ground and a lot of bolts to deal with that one; a straight fight would kill her.

“Stay clear of the College if you know what’s good for you,” said a young auburn-haired man darkly as she entered the inn. “Nothing good comes of magic.”

“It’s the only thing that keeps us on the map, Korir,” retorted the innkeeper. “Unless you want to go more into debt with Ulfric and Sigdrifa?”

“They’re true Nords!” spat Korir. “When my mother died, they were the only ones who stood by me!”

“Only because they’re using the Hold to train their army,” observed a blonde woman in plain brown homespun.

“You there!” Korir called out to Korli. “What do you think of Ulfric and Sigdrifa?”

“I’m Korli Grey-Mane, Companion of Jorrvaskr, and I sure as hell am _not_ getting into this discussion,” Korli said firmly before turning to the innkeeper. “How much for a room?”

“Ten septims. Twenty if you want dinner, three flagons of house mead and bread in the morning,” he answered.

“Done. I just had a hard sabre cat hunt and tomorrow I get to kill a mammoth.” Korli paid up as the blonde perked up.

“I can take those pelts off you,” she said tentatively. “It won’t be as good a price as down south, but you won’t have them weighing you down either.”

“I need to keep the whitish-blue one, but you can have the rest for nothing,” Korli agreed. “I’m undergoing Kyne’s Sacred Trials and I’ve no desire to waste anything. They were given to me by the grace of the goddess and so you may have them.”

“Thank you,” the blonde said sincerely. “I’m Birna. Korir’s our Jarl and the innkeeper’s Dagur.”

“Nice to meet you.” She accepted a flagon of mead from Dagur.

“I’ve never heard of Kyne’s Sacred Trials,” Korir observed after downing half his mead.

“I think only those who follow the pre-Talosite faith are really aware of them,” Korli answered, taking a mouthful of mead. Not bad for a village on the edge of the world.

“So you’re a heathen?”

“If that’s what you want to call me, then call me that. I’d rather be an honest heathen than someone who uses the name of Talos to justify atrocities.”

“I think you just got your answer,” laughed Dagur to the Jarl.

Korir scowled but said nothing. Korli decided to go to bed early and leave before dawn. She didn’t need trouble.

She’d just left the Frozen Hearth two hours before dawn when two guards in Winterhold’s ice-blue approached her. “We don’t like heathens in these parts,” one said. “I think you need a few days in jail to learn some manners.”

“Jorrvaskr knows where I am and what I’m doing,” Korli said in exasperation. “I don’t come back, they’ll investigate and figure out what happened to me, and then your Jarl’s going to look like an idiot. If I die… you’ll wish you’d never left your mother’s tits for the storm that will descend. You _will_ be found. You _will_ be killed. And then the Stormcloaks are going to lose a lot of their honour because everything the Stormsword has ever done will become public.”

“You’re blackmailing us?” the guard demanded, aghast.

“No. I’m just warning you to leave me the hell alone. Honour doesn’t preclude tactics and if I die, a whole lot of truth will be let loose in Skyrim.” Korli called Lightning to her hand and rested the other on her shortsword. “So what choice will it be?”

“Stand down, you idiots!” From the shadows emerged a brown-haired man in bearskins.

“But Jarl Korir-“ the guard began, only to be shut down by a laugh from the Stormcloak officer.

“I’ll sort out Korir. If I see your arses after the count of five, I’m sending you to explain to the Stormsword why you nearly embarrassed her.” The guards were already retreating before he even got to one.

“Thank you,” Korli said sincerely. “I left early because I wasn’t looking for a fight – not a dishonourable one, at least.”

The Stormcloak smiled thinly. “Korir only really has Ulfric and your mother as allies – they kept Winterhold fed after the old Jarl died. He wants to prove himself to them and Skyrim. Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t know who you are.”

“I’m guessing you do,” Korli noted.

“The command staff has been briefed.” He sighed. “I was one of the first to join them, even before Ulfric and Sigdrifa married. She truly did believe you dead, I think. As for the whole pretending the first marriage never happened… Well, Hoag was a rigid man who would never have agreed to the match if he’d known she was a technically married ex-Shieldmaiden. Honour, as you said, doesn’t preclude tactics.”

“Uh huh. Well, I’m not looking for a fight, but I have no intention of fading into the woodwork,” Korli said quietly. “She’s just going to have to swallow the falsehood and deal with the aftermath. I’m responsible for my own honour, not hers.”

“We’ll see.” He nodded. “You better go before Korir wakes up.”

It was a long thoughtful walk south.

The mammoth was difficult in that it took forever to die. Korli took a tusk and the pelt before arranging the rest of it into a shrine with the hawk of Kyne crudely etched into it.

She avoided Whiterun, still troubled by her run-in at Winterhold, and went south into Falkreath to hunt the bear. It was on the border of Orsinium and the Reach, not too distant from Glenmoril Cave, and Korli left a bundle of bear pelts and bones with a hawk feather and the Reach symbol of a gift freely given tied around them.

It took two days to reach Heljarchen and when she did, Torgeir’s expression was wry. “You just had to get into a fight with the Stormcloaks, didn’t you?” he asked ruefully.

“No. Two guards tried to lock me up on Jarl Korir’s orders because I said I’d rather be an honest heathen than use the name of Talos to justify atrocities,” she answered. “Have you gotten trouble from it?”

“Sigdrifa’s minion Calder came by and told me to tell you to keep your damned mouth shut if you know what’s good for you,” Torgeir answered with a roll of the eyes. “She knows that if I’m killed, Oblivion will break loose, but I think she’ll try and harass those of the old faith again. I suppose we’ll need to move again. It’s not unknown.”

“Damn her,” Korli said bitterly. “Hating her is like hating a shark because it’s a shark, so it’s pointless. But Companions of Jorrvaskr don’t run. If she brings the storm to me, I’ll break it over her damned head.”

Torgeir grinned. “Finally, someone with a little spirit! So, there’s one more trial, and he’s not too far from here. The Troll Guardian at Greywater Watch. Be careful, he has friends.”

This time around, she stopped in Jorrvaskr to advise Kodlak and the others of what happened in Winterhold, and Vignar went puce with anger at Sigdrifa’s threat. “I’m of a mind to release everything we know anyway!” the old man growled.

“If we do that, it’ll be… bad,” Korli said softly. “I think we should look into protecting those of the old faith. Sigdrifa always did like to vent her spleen on those who couldn’t fight back.”

“You could have kept your mouth shut in the first place,” Kodlak said wearily. “I don’t care what you call it, but threatening to reveal secrets _is_ blackmail. Jorrvaskr keeps many things hidden for the good of Skyrim.”

“Is that good or is it bad?” Korli asked in disbelief. “You bitched at me when I kept my ancestry and reasons for avoiding Bjarni to myself and now you’re bitching at me because I told Korir’s goons the consequences of imprisoning or killing me? I thought the Harbinger was meant to be a little more consistent, Kodlak.”

Kodlak sighed. “Korli, you’ve got a good heart and I think you mean to live with honour. But the ways of the Blades are ingrained in you so deeply that sometimes you don’t realise you’re acting like one. We aren’t spies or assassins. We are forthright warriors who deal only in truth and face our enemies openly.”

“So I should go to Windhelm and beat the shit out of my mother? Kyne knows it would be cathartic,” Korli observed sardonically. “What was I supposed to do, Kodlak, go quietly and get stabbed in the back when Korir learned who I was? Shieldmaidens are permitted any tactic in fulfilling their primary vow, and my mother’s vow was to emulate Talos in all respects. That includes killing off embarrassing and potentially dangerous relatives.”

“You could have done as Danica asked you. The Gildergreen would be cured by now and there’d be one less Hagraven in the world.” Kodlak shook his head. “There is nothing holy or sacred in those filthy things. You are too tolerant of Daedra worship, I think.”

“How’s your cure for lycanthropy going, Kodlak?” Korli asked acidly. “Found a way to do it without killing an innocent yet?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Kodlak’s gaze was grim. “The head of a Glenmoril Hagraven thrown into the Flame of the Harbinger will free us all from Hircine’s curse.”

The twins exchanged glances, Vignar’s eyes narrowed, Aela looked outraged and Skjor thunderous. “You’re talking about breaking a truce that’s two hundred years old!”

“They tricked us. Catriona, the Matriarch, has committed atrocities against Skyrim.” Kodlak sighed. “You’ll thank me for this, I swear. We need to purge ourselves of the curse before the Silver Hand attacks us again.”

“Kodlak,” Korli said clearly, her tone dripping with venom, “I’d like to cordially invite you to get fucked. Catriona is my Granma, damn your eyes, the only one who ever gave me any affection after Cloud Ruler and before I came to Jorrvaskr-“

“She’s a Daedra-worshipping monster!” Kodlak retorted. “Oh, I know some of them are capable of affection, but she’s an infection-“

“So in order to maintain honour, as you see it, I should become a kinslayer? Because I damn well know you were going to ask me since I’d be that way in a few moons.” Korli spat at his feet. “If this is what it means to be a Companion of Jorrvaskr, then go and get fucked. You’re so obsessed with saving your soul you’ve betrayed what we stand for. No wonder we diminish and hide in Jorrvaskr like a turtle in its shell. Companions keep their word, they keep their honour, and they damned well don’t kill their kin!”

She turned to Vignar. “Tell Eorlund I’m going on my wander-year a little sooner. I won’t return to Jorrvaskr while Kodlak is Harbinger, because I don’t think he’s a Harbinger’s arsehole.”

Skjor stepped in her path as she went to leave. “If you believe that the Harbinger has been dishonourable, you have the right to challenge him for the position, Korli.”

She shook her head. “I know, but no. Kodlak took me in when others were doubtful. For that, I won’t kill him. Just… don’t pick a fight with my Granma, please. I know there’s another way to cure lycanthropy, but it must be earned. I’ll try to find it while I’m in Orsinium. But I need to finish these Trials and heal the Gildergreen before I go.”

“Kodlak’s going to find it hard to find someone to hunt the witches of Glenmoril,” Skjor said soberly.

“Aye,” Vilkas agreed unhappily. “I… don’t know what to do.”

Korli paused by him and squeezed his shoulder. “Listen to that wise voice inside of you. Fralia told me it’s the Voice of Kyne.”

No one else said anything to stop her. And somehow that hurt more than the leaving did.


	8. The Blessings of Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. I know I’m being harsh on Kodlak, but honestly, the guy’s at least partly hypocritical in my eyes.

“So the last Guardian is defeated,” Torgeir said as Korli handed over the troll pelt and skull. “And you’ve left Jorrvaskr, I hear.”

“Kodlak and I disagreed on a matter of honour,” she said tersely. “He wanted me to take a job that would have had me clashing with Reachfolk relatives of mine. I won’t go more into it than that.”

“Terrfyg’s bargain with Hircine? An unwise decision by a stupid Harbinger,” Torgeir observed.

“I know there’s a way to cure lycanthropy that doesn’t involve decapitating my granma,” Korli countered. “Sure, she’s a Hagraven, but she’s a better person than Sigdrifa.”

“I’ll take your word for it. We of the old faith tend to leave the Forsworn alone.” Torgeir clasped his hands. “But _you_ have completed Kyne’s Sacred Trials and earned the token of Kyne’s favour. Watch, wonder-smith, and learn of a magic from before the time of steel.”

For the next few hours, Korli learned that the Clever Craft wasn’t dead among the Nords, and all of Torgeir’s ivory charms had a purpose. With the smoke from a fire made from hawk feathers, carving of the ivory from her kills and the troll’s pelt, he made a necklace decorated with the seven sacred predators and the hawk-mask of Kyne. The Reach magics Catriona had used, the wonder-smithing of the Grey-Manes and the Clever Craft of Torgeir all came from the same source – the ice-cold sorceries of the Atmorani.

“The tooth and claw of an animal will do less harm to you and your arrows will fly truer than before,” Torgeir said as he placed the necklace around her neck. “But more importantly, all of the old faith will know you to be the Champion of Kyne. Go to the Eldergleam Sanctuary and find a way to heal the Gildergreen. Shor’s Warrior-Widow will guide you.”

“Thank you,” Korli said softly. “If I’ve brought trouble-“

Torgeir’s smile was wintry. “Tsun is the God of Trials and Endurance. It’s nothing we haven’t weathered before.”

She could only hope he was right.

It was a two-day trip from the frozen lands of the Pale to the volcanic tundra of southern Eastmarch and Korli relied on the tricks Aela had taught her to conceal her tracks. Her leaving Jorrvaskr had removed the mantle that protected her for so long, even if she felt it was the only right thing to do, and Sigdrifa might be tempted to strike. If Korli died by bandit’s hand, who could blame the Stormsword?

_Poor Bjarni,_ she thought with a sigh. She’d never gone too much into why she disliked their mother, not wanting to sour his relationship with Sigdrifa. Now, he might feel caught between a rock and a hard place.

She didn’t expect to run into a Hagraven in front of Eldergleam Sanctuary. “Away, filthy Nord, or I’ll kill you!” the creature croaked.

Korli held up her clenched fists, crossed at the wrists back-to-back, in the traditional peace-sign of the Reach. “I’m Korli mac Catriona, blood of Stag Crown and Lost Valley. I’m going to Eldergleam Sanctuary!”

“Twice traitor’s blood. I should kill you!”

“I’ll concede to the one but my granma wasn’t a traitor. Her only sin was to be a true Nord who couldn’t kill her own daughter,” Korli told the Hagraven. “I’m here to find a way to cure the Gildergreen in Whiterun. I have no quarrel with you, Matriarch.”

“A likely story,” sulked the Hagraven. “But you carry Skyforge Steel and Kyne’s token. You would be missed. Go and say nothing or I will find you and eat your eyes.”

Korli backed away slowly, hands still in the peace-sign, until she was at the cave’s mouth. She didn’t even know Hagravens lived this far east.

Eldergleam Sanctuary was beautiful, the pink-leafed tree glowing in the shaft of sunlight from the hole in the cave’s roof. Two Nords in simple homespun clothing sat on the banks of the stream under its roots, sharing a simple meal of fish and roots.

“Hello there, friend. Have you come to enjoy the sights and sounds of this beautiful sanctuary, as I have? Truly remarkable, isn't it?” called out the man as Korli approached.

“It is,” Korli said honestly.

“It’s been a long time since anyone could approach her,” remarked the woman. “As you can see, Eldergleam's roots are large and stretch far, blocking any path to her trunk. Though, believe it or not, there are rumours of a weapon that even Eldergleam herself would lift her roots for, more out of fear than respect.”

“Nettlebane? I’ve heard of it,” Korli said with a grimace. “It’s sacred to the Reachfolk.”

“I don’t think the Forsworn hold anything sacred,” the woman snorted. “I am Asta and my brother is Sond. We tend to Eldergleam and try to protect her.”

“Korli,” she replied. “Danica sent me here to try and find the cure for the Gildergreen. It was struck by lightning a few weeks ago.”

The pair exchanged looks. “That’s not a good omen,” Sond observed.

“I know. Danica wanted sap from the Eldergleam but…” Korli spread her hands.

“The sap can cure even death, the stories say. But if Kyne has struck the Gildergreen down, who are we to gainsay Her?” Asta asked.

“Maybe it’s a statement that all things die and must be reborn,” Sond said thoughtfully.

“That’s my interpretation,” Korli agreed.

“Come, eat with us,” he invited. “You must be special if Danica asked you to heal the Gildergreen.”

Korli sat down and pulled out some waybread. “It isn’t much, but it’s edible,” she said quietly.

“By the Storm, you’re the Champion of Kyne!” Asta exclaimed on seeing the token around her neck. “No wonder you were called here!”

“Do you know the green-singing?” Sond asked excitedly. “You could sing the Eldergleam into blossom!”

“I’ve only read about the green-singing in the books,” Korli said reluctantly. “It’s lost, I think.”

“Maybe,” Sond said dubiously. “I know only one verse and my mama said it was from the green-singing, but I never had the power.”

“I know how to wonder-smith,” Korli said quietly, “And my granma taught me some of the Reach magics. Please, teach me the song. I might learn something.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. “Wuth Reyth Bex, Wuth Reyth Ofan, Wuth Reyth Kun, Wuth Reyth Kogaan.”

“Be careful,” Asta said anxiously. “If you say it wrong, you could awaken the Spriggans and then we’re all in trouble.”

“Then it can wait until morning,” Korli said quietly. “It’s been a long day and I had to talk down a Hagraven.”

“Old Moira? She’s something, isn’t she?” Sond said wryly.

“I just hope I don’t run into her again.”

The next morning, after washing and donning a cotton shift, Korli approached the Eldergleam’s roots. “Wuth Reyth Bex,” she whispered.

Nothing. She tried it again and again until her voice cracked out in the morning stillness like thunder. With a groan, the root shifted, revealing a worn path.

_It’s a_ Shout, Korli realised. _Kyne did give Nords the Thu’um…_

She used the Shout to open the roots and then was at a loss once she reached the Eldergleam’s trunk. Under her hand, it was blood-warm and throbbed like a beating heart.

“Wuth Reyth Ofan!” she Shouted.

She was nearly brained by the seed that fell from the tree and sent tendrils into the earth, becoming an arm-length sapling within moments. Asta gasped and quickly produced a digging stone while Sond found a pot; they potted the sapling reverently, praying to Kyne all the while.

“Wuth Reyth Kun!” Korli said once the sapling was potted; each one she used it, a root closed behind the three as they walked down the path.

“Wuth Reyth Kogaan,” she finished and the tree rustled its leaves in acknowledgement.

“I can’t believe you just yelled at the Eldergleam and she obeyed you,” Sond said in disbelief.

“The song… it’s made of Shouts,” Korli said softly. “Don’t ask me why I had to yell at it. Maybe because my singing’s been reliably compared to horkers with laryngitis after a three-day mead bender.”

Sond sniggered and even Asta laughed.

After that, Korli took the northern path from Windhelm back to Whiterun. Once the sapling was planted, she could go on her wander-year (or years) until everything settled down. She shouldn’t have lost her temper. But Kodlak had wanted her to commit kinslaughter…

She wasn’t sure what the path to honour was now and even Kyne had no answers.

…

“Korli’s back with a new Gildergreen!”

The Grey-Manes stopped eating when Bjarni yelled the news from the doorway. Her departure from Whiterun and Jorrvaskr had shocked the city, but Bjarni, Thorald and Olfina sneaked near the cave under the Skyforge and listened to the yelling. Vignar, Skjor and Aela were on her side, Farkas wasn’t sure where he stood, and Vilkas stood with Kodlak though he said it should be another Companion who killed Catriona because she was Korli’s granma even if she was a Hagraven. Korli’s dad was part-Daedra, Mother had said; it had to be _his_ mother who was the Hagraven.

“Uh uh,” Avulstein said when Bjarni asked him about it. “Catriona was the Stormsword’s mama. Figures she’s a Hagraven; explains your mother.”

“Avulstein Grey-Mane, you will not speak ill of Bjarni’s mother,” Fralia chided. “She doesn’t need any help in that regards.”

Bjarni knew the Grey-Manes didn’t like Mother because she’d left Korli in the Empire and she wanted to kill all the blackcoats and the ‘heathens’ who didn’t worship Talos. But Korli and the Grey-Manes were ‘heathens’ and even Korli admitted Talos was a god, she just thought he was a lousy god because he did a lot of terrible things. He didn’t know what to think, so he just sat down and listened. Korli said that helped a lot.

Now they were saying Korli was the Champion of Kynareth who’d Shouted at the Eldergleam until it gave her a new Gildergreen. That was easy for Bjarni to believe. Korli was very good at yelling at things, nearly as good as Father. She’d killed seven spirit animals all over Skyrim too. None of the other Companions had done stuff half as great as her, though Skjor and Kodlak versus the fifty Orcish berserkers came kind of close.

“Why did Korli leave Jorrvaskr?” he asked Avulstein as they went to look at Korli planting the new Gildergreen.

“She and Kodlak had a disagreement about honour,” his cousin said with a sigh. “It’s one of those things where everyone was right and everyone was wrong.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Bjarni grumbled. Honour was simple, right?

“Korli’s daddy was a Blade and they believed honour was using any weapon that came to hand to protect the Septim Emperors,” Avulstein said awkwardly. “Kind of like your mama, but a lot more sneaky. Korli knows stuff and told a couple folks in the Pale that if anything happened to her, embarrassing stuff would go public and the Stormcloaks would be shamed. It stopped a fight but Kodlak said she was threatening blackmail, which is bad because a Companion confronts their problems openly and is honest. But then he also said that sometimes secrets should be kept in case more trouble came from it.”

“Mother says something like that too,” Bjarni observed. “Korli’s like her sometimes, only not as… cold.”

“Honestly, I think Korli should go to Windhelm and punch your mama a few times,” Avulstein mused. “It’s not kinslaughter and no offence, Bjarni, but your mama’s due a few punches in the face.”

“She wouldn’t be very happy,” Bjarni warned. “She’d talk to her friend Astrid if Korli did that.”

“And then the shit would be out. Your mama lied for years and now everyone knows she did and it’s pissing her off,” Avulstein pointed out. “Whole bunches of people hate Korli because her parents and grandparents did bad things. She shouldn’t have to hide because of that.”

Bjarni couldn’t argue with that. “I can’t tell her that,” he said sadly. “She wouldn’t listen.”

“Yeah, I know. All you can do is be honest and live with honour.” Avulstein smiled. “I know you can do that.”

Once the old Gildergreen had been cut down and ceremoniously burned in honour of Kyne, Korli planted the sapling in the big hole and then laid her palms on the ground to fill it with soil. Rich dark loam crumbled into the hole and above them all, a hawk screamed. Bjarni supposed Kyne approved of that.

“Thank you, Korli,” Danica said fervently. “You were right. The old tree had to die so a new one could grow.”

“Sounds like it,” Korli agreed. “Asta and Sond will be able to help you with keeping it whole. The green-singing should work with the galdr-chant.”

“So no Shouting?” Danica asked amusedly.

“I think it only worked because Kyne didn’t want to hear me sing,” Korli said wryly.

Everyone laughed, including Bjarni. Korli really couldn’t sing. She sounded like Mother when she did that, only with a deeper voice.

Afterwards, Vignar approached her. “Will you be staying?” he asked softly. “We’re not going to disown you because you called Kodlak out.”

“No,” Korli said with a sigh. “I’m… not sure what the path of honour is anymore. I need to travel around, away from all of this. I promised my cousins in Orsinium a visit and I might have a chat to my great-great-granma. She’s crazy but her honour was never in doubt.”

“You’re always a Grey-Mane…” Vignar sighed. “We won’t be doing anything to Catriona. Only Vilkas agrees with Kodlak but he won’t go against a coven of Hagravens on his own.”

“I intend to talk to her. There’s another cure for the beast-blood, I know it. If I find it, I’ll send it.” She smiled wryly. “Try not to get into fights while I’m gone.”

“Ha! I can still beat a whelp half my age.”

“Of course you can.” She hugged Vignar and then stepped around him, seeing Bjarni.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I guess I’m still too angry with Mother and I need some time away to figure out what to do. I love you, little brother.”

“I love you too,” Bjarni said sadly. “Come back. Egil needs to meet you.”

“I will,” she promised.

It would be years before he saw her again.


End file.
